House Calls
by The Profane Angel
Summary: House/CJ crossover. See author's note for fuller explanation. It begins with one Friday night in a bar, and my favorite fantasies about compelling characters take flight...but fear not, WoJo shippers, just be patient. Don't own Crossing Jordan, etc.


A/N: A House/Crossing Jordan crossover. According to House canon, House did go to Boston, and so, let's see what might have happened one night in a bar…J/W shippers, don't get your knickers in a twist, this is simply fun stuff. Think of the possibilities… and a little Jack McCoy, too. And yes, I write in long blocks, it's the way I work.

It was one long day for Jordan, and she was relieved it was over. She finally told the new intern, Quentin Cawley, to roll the body to the crypt, then headed for the locker room to shower and change. She thought of Woody, and felt the familiar ache of loss. He would be out with Lu, no doubt, it was Friday night. She would be alone. Again. She took a long shower, washing away the odors of chemicals that clung to all of them by the end of the day. Toweling dry in the stall, she then went into the locker area and opened hers. As she stepped into a pair of jeans, she heard the door open, and she turned her head.

It was the new intern. She looked unsettled. Jordan smiled, slipping a white crewneck sweater over her head. "Hard day?" she asked.

Quentin shrugged. "I guess it just takes some getting used to. Though why my internship had to fall in Boston in the winter is beyond me."

Jordan sat on the narrow bench in front of the lockers and reached for her boots. " It's not winter, yet, you wait. This is just autumn. Maybe forensic medicine isn't going to be your thing."

Quentin smiled. "Maybe not, but I really want that fellowship in Princeton if it comes open, and the doctor running it likes odd specialties."

Jordan eased her jeans over her boots. "Well," she said, standing, "It gets better. Wash your hair twice, by the way, or no one will stand within fifty feet of you." She grabbed her bag and shouldered it. "See you Monday."

"Night, Dr. Cavanaugh."

Jordan left the locker room and ambled down the corridor. She nodded to the night shift, then punched the elevator button and waited. She wasn't in the mood to go home. She thought about this small bar near Mass General, where she went as a resident, she remembered it as a fun place, and she wondered if it had changed much in the past few years. She decided to give it a shot.

With her medical examiner's placard, she parked in the hospital lot and walked the half block to the bar. It looked the same, with stained glass windows in the doors, the name painted in green above the café curtains on the windows. She saw people inside as she approached, darkness had fallen, and the wind picked up. She regretted not grabbing a jacket on her way out this morning, and she stepped into the smoky warmth of the bar, immediately glad she hadn't brought that jacket, it was just one more thing to forget. She looked around.

It was still a place for the interns and residents, she thought, looking at the younger people sitting at tables. She glanced at the long, burnished bar. A few men were scattered along its length, and she shrugged. She chose a stool next to a tall, good looking man three days past shaving. He glanced at her, looked back at his drink, and looked at her again, this time in the mirror behind the bar. She ordered a beer, then leaned back on the captain's stool and sipped it. She loved that first taste of beer.

She noticed the man was watching her in the mirror. Well, she thought, I did sit next to him, he must be used to single women doing that. He wore an expensive blazer over a tee shirt and jeans, with Nike tennis shoes. She acknowledged him with a slight smile as she raised the glass to her lips. She wanted to decompress, to let the day slip away with some cold beer and good music, and if she struck up a conversation with this good looking man, all the better. She judged him to be in his mid-forties, with sandy hair that wanted to curl, and he had blue eyes that put Woody's to shame. Woody. The name cut through her, and she drained half the beer.

The man turned a little toward her. "Remember something you forgot to do?" He wasn't exactly friendly, but he wasn't hostile, either, he was observant.

"No," she said, putting her empty glass on the bar and signaling for another. "Remembering someone I'd rather forget."

He nodded. "My pain in the ass is named Stacy. What's yours?"

She grinned. "Woody." She thanked the bartender.

He smirked. "Does he live up to it?"

"I really don't know." She put her elbow on the bar and propped up her head, looking at the man.

"His loss," the man said, and he drained his drink, then pushed the glass forward, signaling the bartender. He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulled a pack of cigarettes out. "If it bothers you, move," he said.

Her eyebrows arched. "Doesn't bother me, I used to smoke. I'm Jordan."

He lit the cigarette, picked up his drink, and seemed to think, then he said, "Greg." He sipped the drink. "So, Jordan without her Woody, what brings you to a bar near a hospital? Actually, though, it's a great place for a bar."

"I used to come here during my residency. Guess I was feeling nostalgic."

"Waste of time," he said. "Never look back. So you're a doctor. Me, too." His eyes locked on hers, and she wondered how she could ever have thought Woody's eyes were gorgeous, this man had some spectacular eyes, and they didn't miss a thing.

"You have privileges at the General?"

"Nope." He sucked down about half his scotch. "I'm actually here as an outpatient." His eyes ran over her again, and then he reached in the side pocket of his blazer and pulled out a pill bottle. He uncapped it and shook one into his palm, had it in his mouth before she could identify its class, and replaced the bottle in his pocket. He turned slightly more toward her. "Not asking why. Cool. So, you practice in that asylum over there?" He jerked his head in the direction of the hospital.

"No," she said. "I suppose what I do could be called a practice, but most people run like hell when they hear it."

He smiled. Oh God, she thought, he had a wonderful smile. "You're into corpses," he said.

Her eyes widened. "What? I showered." She stopped herself from sniffing her clothes.

His eyes were lit with the glint of a merry gremlin. "Oh relax, you don't stink. It's just that two things are guaranteed to make people run like hell - death and the feds. What is a beautiful woman doing cutting up dead bodies?"

"As opposed to an ugly woman?"

He smiled again, acknowledging her score. "I'll hire you in a minute," he said.

"So you can look at me?" she teased, feeling the beer now, her second glass was almost empty, and Greg snapped his fingers at the bartender. He ordered another round.

"I think it's an equal opportunity offer," he said. She blushed, she didn't realize she was so obvious about looking at him. "We can sit around the office and bask in our mutual lust for each other. My peons do all the work anyway. Want to move to New Jersey?"

She laughed. "I don't think so. I drove through it once, that was enough."

"Ah, but I have Princeton to offer." He picked up his drink. "And some killer skills."

"I can imagine." She could, too, and she felt the blush start creeping up her neck. She picked up her beer to cover it, but he smiled, there was that merry gremlin again. "So," she said, stumbling for something, anything, to say besides can I get in your pants? "What do you do, Greg?"

"I have an impressive title, but the truth is, as little as possible. I'm the head of diagnostic medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

That rang bells, and she focused on him. "You're the guy. Our new intern is lusting for a fellowship there, she took this internship because she said you liked people with weird experiences."

"Useful life skills is how I put it," he said. "Now, what useful skills do you have?" He leaned on the arm of his chair. "An incredible tongue would be high on my list of must hires."

She burst out laughing. "Well, I'm in the market for a cunning linguist."

He smirked. "I speak three languages, and I'm as cunning as they come. Just ask my boss, she can never find me when it's time for clinic duty. Or maybe it's to drag me into the linen closet, she wants to get knocked up."

Jordan couldn't get enough of his eyes, they said far more than his words. She knew he was interested, that he was testing her, and now that she knew who he was, she was really interested. Dr. Gregory House had a major reputation for mad skills at diagnostic medicine, the best in the country. "And you won't cooperate?"

"Nope. Not with either proposition." He finished his drink. "Look, I'm lousy at this social thing. What I really want is to be alone with you."

"My car is half a block from here."

He reached for his wallet and dropped a couple of tens on the bar. It was then she noticed his cane, he reached for it, hanging on the other side of his stool, and he stood. God, he was tall, at least six four, she thought, sliding off the stool. "I have a hotel somewhere around here," he said, walking with her to the door.

"I hate hotels, I'm always thinking about trace evidence. My apartment isn't all that far away."

He held the door for her. "As long as you promise not to take advantage of me."

She shrugged. "I've learned not to make promises."

His limp was pronounced, and she wondered what caused it, if it had something to do with his presence in Boston. Once he was seated in the car, he reached into his pocket again. This time she asked.

"What are those?"

"Vicodin." He looked at her. "Want one?" He put the bottle back before she answered. "You rise higher and higher on my list, Jordan of the dead, you don't ask questions and you don't lecture on the obvious."

She pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. "You're a doctor. I'm not going to presume to lecture you on anything. We're all free to make our own choices." A note of bitterness crept into her voice, and she turned the radio on to cover it. She'd once mixed narcotics and booze and nearly died, but this man seemed unaffected, so she judged him opiate tolerant, he'd been on the drugs a long time. And Woody made his choice, so to hell with him, she was a healthy young woman and this was one sexy man.

"One of the fallacies of the human condition is free will," he said, absently rubbing his right thigh. "We make choices, yes, but are they truly free?"

"I'd like to think they were," she said, paying attention to her driving, she did not want to get pulled over.

"If I offered a choice between, say, ice cream and a bowl of pablum, which would you choose? The one you liked, and thus your choice is not really free, it's driven by what you like. So what do you like, Jordan?"

She shrugged. "I'm not really sure. I mean, I like music, good food, company, I love great sex. But none of those define me." She glanced at him, he stared straight ahead, and she looked back at the road. "What about you?"

"I like music. I like sex. I like solving puzzles, like winning." He looked at her. "When I lose, that's when you come in."

"Ah." She made the turn onto Pearl Street. "I've heard of you."

"From your intern?"

"No." She killed the engine and took the keys from the ignition. "Don't tell me you aren't aware of your national reputation."

He smiled as he worked himself out of the El Camino. "Lousy car for a gorgeous woman," he said, "and a real pain in the ass to get in and out of. No, I won't pretend I don't know I'm the best at what I do." They walked slowly into her building and up the stairs.

She opened the door and hit the master switch, lighting the lamps. "I hope you aren't hungry, because I cannot cook. At all."

"Neither can I, and no, I'm not hungry." He looked around, saw her guitar, and his eyes lit again. He settled on the couch, and before he could ask, she gave it to him. He strummed it, tuned it, and suddenly music, real music, flowed, she knew the song but couldn't name it. He glanced up at her. "Donovan. Season of the Witch. Although I'm really impressive when I'm doing the Who." She laughed, and he nodded. She sat next to him, listening, he was gifted. She felt his loneliness in his music, his pain, and for a moment, she wondered what she opened herself to. Then she realized she was lonely, too, that music helped fill those voids. Then he put the guitar aside. "Enough for a drink?" he asked.

She got up. "What would you like?"

"Scotch, if you have it, but I'll settle for moonshine." She glanced back at him, at those incredible eyes, and realized he was nervous.

"I have it. Ice?"

"I'm a purist," he said. She poured a generous glass of scotch for him, and got a beer for herself, then returned to him, aware of his eyes following her every move.

"Greg, do I make you nervous?" She sat next to him.

He looked at her. "It's a fact of the human condition that everybody lies, but I'm not going to. This once. Yes. You remind me of someone, and I'm afraid my leg will end this before it starts."

"Stacy the pain in the ass?" He nodded. "And I don't think your leg will send me running from the room."

"You haven't seen it."

"So tell me about it."

He told her, in clinical detail, about the infarction that took so much muscle from his thigh, from the trickery Stacy employed to accomplish that, even though he knew it saved his life. Then he stood and opened his jeans, dropping them to his knees. She looked at his leg, yes, it was one ugly scar, and the physician in her knew the pain he endured. She reached out and gently caressed it, a sensual rather than clinical gesture.

"I'm not running," she said, and looked up at him. His face softened, the mask he wore of general contempt for the human race was gone. "Take them off," she whispered.

"If we're going to play show and tell," he said.

She stood and unbuttoned her jeans, dropping them to the floor and stepping out of them. He looked at her legs and smiled. She took his hand once he was free of his jeans and led him, gently, to her bedroom. She pulled back the covers, and he fell heavily onto the mattress, his leg giving way. She pretended not to notice, busying herself with putting a CD in the player, turning the lamp to its lowest setting, and then she turned to face him. He watched her, she saw how vulnerable he really was, and she understood. She pulled her sweater over her head, then reached behind and released her bra hooks. As her breasts swung free, he muttered "my god," and yanked off his blazer and tee shirt, throwing them on the floor. Then he edged across the bed, making room for her. She slipped her panties off, then slid next to him. He still wore his underwear, and she reached for his waistband. He took that moment to kiss her, and she thought an electric current shot through her, she was ready to throw him on his back and have her way with him.

He eased her down on her back, still kissing her, and his hand gently covered her breast. His fingertips were magic on her nipples, as his tongue explored her mouth. Oh God, she thought, do not torment me. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes, smiling as he read her need, it fed his own and he rolled between her legs. At that moment she wouldn't have remembered Woody's name if he'd walked in the room. Buried within her, he looked at her. "I suppose I should have asked what you liked," he said, and that merry gremlin's smile flashed across his lips.

"This," she said, "Holy sweet Jesus." He rode her slowly, teasingly, it had been so long, she thought, too long, as her nerve endings collected data and exploded. He held firm within her as she came, her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapping around his. As it subsided, he kissed her lightly.

"Been awhile," he said, smiling. "Let's make up for lost time."

He was amazing, he brought her to orgasm after orgasm before finally letting go, his body weight would have felt crushing any other time, but it was perfect, their sweat intermingling along with other bodily fluids. And then, watching his face, her hand on his jaw, she saw him wince. He rolled off her and stared at the ceiling, taking her hand, and then he said "I'm sorry, but can you get my pills out of my coat?"

She got up and found his jacket, found the bottle of Vicodin, and brought it to him. He sat up and uncapped the bottle, swallowing two, then he put the bottle on the nightstand. Pushing the pillow up behind his head, he reached for her, and she stretched out beside him, running her hand across his chest. "How bad is it?" she asked.

He looked at her, deciding she really wanted to know. "Bad. Some days it's just unbearable, the other days it sucks your very soul out."

"And you've never forgiven her?"

"Not really. It was a betrayal of all I thought we had."

"She wanted to save your life."

He nodded. "So she said. Repeatedly. Want to talk about Woodless?"

She shook her head, grinning at his appellation. "So we won't talk about the pain in the ass," she said.

"Why do we have to talk at all?"

She glanced down. "Damn," she said. "Who needs conversation?"

She'd never met a man who could say so much with his body, it wouldn't lie, when she knew well that his mouth would, that his layers of protection were many, but tonight, this one night, he seemed to open to her. She wondered how long it had been for him, he couldn't seem to get enough of her. She learned it was easier on his leg if she rode him.

At nine o'clock there was an insistent pounding on her door. She wasn't on call, she had no obligation to answer, but the pounding continued. Frustrated, she left Greg's arms and snatched her robe off the chair, barely tying it before screaming at the door, "Oh get a grip!" She opened it to face Lily and Nigel, both a little buzzed. She held her arm across the gap, looking at them with a mixture of fondness and annoyance. "What."

"Oh my," Nigel said, looking over her shoulder to Greg's jeans in the middle of the living room floor. "We've come at a bad time, Lily."

Lily stared with surprise and pleasure at her friend, then nodded. "We're sorry, Jordan, we should have called, it's just…" she stopped.

"I know," Jordan said, "you thought I'd be bored and alone. Night, guys." She closed the door on them and bolted it, then returned to her bedroom, taking Greg's jeans with her. "Sorry," she said, shedding the robe and getting back in bed.

He was heavy lidded, but his eyes still gazed appreciatively at this long limbed beauty. He raised his left arm slightly, and she crawled into his embrace, pulling the covers with her. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart, feeling its beat slow as he drifted away. She wondered again why he was at Mass General, what was wrong, and hoped it wasn't serious. Then, sated herself, she slept with him.

00000000

She woke first and sat up, looking down at him. Picking up a stranger was not a foreign experience, but this was the first time she'd let one spend the night. He looked so different in his sleep, stripped of his masks, life had been hard and showed, but he was still one of the sexiest men she'd ever seen, and she didn't regret anything. He was a fascinating man, brilliant, and the best lover she'd ever had. She hoped he wouldn't regret anything and become a stranger this morning.

His eyes opened and for a second she saw pain, naked excruciating pain, and then he twisted, reaching for his bottle. He swallowed two, then put it back and looked at her. "I think the rules say I must say good morning."

"Not unless you want to," she said. "While I can't cook, I can make coffee. Want some?"

"Love it. Uh, where's the john? And my cane?"

She pointed. "There. And I'll get your cane." She moved quickly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, massaging his thigh, and he took the cane with a muttered thanks. She watched him limp to the bathroom, and could only imagine the pain he was in right now. She knew she couldn't fix it, she wouldn't try, but she could make coffee. She went into the kitchen and got it started.

She heard a thud. Turning, she stepped into the doorway and saw Greg, halfway on a chair, his bad leg on the floor and his face a mask of agony. His cane was a couple of feet away, and she realized he'd slipped on the hardwood floor. "Oh Jesus," she said, kneeling beside him, "I'm sorry."

He looked at her, his agony clear. "Not your fault," he said, trying to pull himself up on the chair. She let him, sensing the worst thing she could do was try to help. Seated, still naked, he rubbed the hideous scar that had once been healthy thigh muscle. "Jordan." He drew a deep breath. "Do you have any drugs? A prescription pad?"

She nodded. "I have a pad, a DEA number." She went to her desk and sorted through the drawer, finally finding it. She sat down and wrote a script for twenty fifteen milligram oxycodone tablets. "Can you get dressed?" He nodded, and pointed at his cane. She got it for him, and he moved slowly to the bed. It took him a few minutes to dress, and then he took the prescription from her. "I'll take you to get that filled."

They got down the stairs and into the car. Greg was silent, and Jordan made no effort to start a conversation. She drove to the closest pharmacy, one where she knew the pharmacist, and went in with him, having thrown on the clothes she wore last night and run a brush through her hair. Together they presented the script to the tech, who examined it suspiciously. She got off her chair and went back to the pharmacist, who looked at the prescription, then looked up and saw Jordan. She came over.

"Dr. Cavanaugh. You've never written a script before."

"I have. It's perfectly legal, Sandra, run my DEA number. This is Dr. House, and he needs it now, trust me."

Sandra held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. She glanced at Greg, saw the sweat on his forehead, and decided to expedite. Within fifteen minutes, Greg had the meds. He showed, Jordan thought, great restraint in not swallowing four of them in the store. Back in the car, he ripped the top off the bottle and popped two in his mouth. He leaned his head back, eyes closed, and his hand reached for hers.

"Thank you, Dr. Cavanaugh." He squeezed her hand.

"Not to worry, Dr. House." She squeezed back. Then she started the car, he wasn't fit to be anywhere but in her house, where she could take care of him as much as he would let her. By the time they reached her building, he was looking around, the meds were kicking in.

She poured coffee and they sat on the couch, his leg propped up. He looked at her as he took his mug. "Yes," he said, "it's unavoidable." She was surprised, he'd answered the question she was about to ask.

"So is that part of this morning?"

"No, that was slipping on your floor. I have my meds, I'm not in withdrawal, I'm in pain. Dr. Cuddy, who runs the hospital where I work, refuses to allow any of the docs to give me anything stronger than Vicodin. She -" he cut himself off, then sipped coffee. "I can keep it under control, but moving around a lot aggravates the hell out of it." He reached for her hand. "But there are times when it is so worth it."

"Why are you in Boston, Greg?" She turned on the couch, pulling a leg underneath her bottom, facing him.

His eyes darkened. "I'm having something done, or preparing to have it done, anyway. If all goes well, I'll be back in Boston in a couple of weeks."

She didn't push. He held her hand, and she couldn't help but wonder when he'd last had real human contact. Probably as long as it had been for her. Her cell rang then, and she sighed, pulling away from him. She glanced at the caller ID, then answered. "Busy, Nigel. All weekend. I'm not on call, OK? Garret is." She hung up, then turned the ringer off.

Greg was smiling when she turned around and walked back to the couch. "You want to spend the weekend with me?"

"I do."

He shrugged. "I don't do social very well. Most people would call me a jerk, and I guess I am. You're a gorgeous woman, why would you want to hang with a crippled jerk?"

"Because you're a terrific lay?"

He laughed, almost spilling his coffee. "God, woman, you're going to make a shambles of my everybody lies routine." He motioned for her to slide closer. "And allow me to say you are the finest piece of ass I've ever had."

She snorted. "I so wish my colleagues could hear you say that."

"Me, too. Should we take turns visiting our separate workplaces? I'd love to see Cuddy's face if you said that."

"Tell me about Cuddy."

"Ass like a battleship," he began, and then he stopped. "No. That isn't true. And for this weekend, I'm going to speak the truth. She's smart, sexy, lonely in her own way, and we have a history. There's trust between us, but it was her doctors who misdiagnosed my infarction, she who conspired with Stacy to do this surgery once I was in a chemical coma, and somehow I just can't get past that. Gives me leverage, though. You'd probably like her." He sipped more coffee. "I'm damned good at what I do, and that's what gives my life meaning. Stacy walked out on me, I couldn't forgive her and she couldn't take it anymore, and I gave up on relationships, I'd never make them work, I'd never be able to trust anyone that much again." He shrugged. "No great loss, since most people are idiots, anyway."

She leaned her head into his shoulder. "Maybe not most," she said. His breathing, his heart rate, told her the meds had kicked in and he was OK. She ran her fingers along his good thigh. "I tend to run from people, too."

"So why sit next to me in a bar?"

"Because I thought you were sexy."

He looked at her and laughed. "You need glasses."

"Nope. I have proof." She ran her index finger from his knee to his thigh. He put his mug on the end table and took hers away from her, then kissed her. She felt the fire again, and slipped easily into his lap, being careful of his leg. He held her, her head under his chin, and it felt good. A weekend fling, she thought, why not, Woody's having a permanent fling and I'm allowed a little happiness. She let a momentary fantasy play out, moving to New Jersey to be near this incredible man, a man who dared say exactly what he thought, who was brilliant, respected professionally, and who, with her, didn't play games. He was a deeply wounded man, but then, she was an equally wounded woman, would they end up destroying each other? That's what stopped the fantasy, that and Greg turning her face up to kiss her again.

After five minutes of serious heat, he whispered "I'm not good on couches."

She got up, held out her hand, and he took it, but he took his cane, too. They made their way to her bed, and got out of their clothes in record time. No matter what, she wouldn't forget this weekend, this man was setting a standard few could meet. Out of pain, without alcohol, he was even more powerful, more skilled than he'd been last night. Jordan wondered if one could die of multiple orgasms.

0000000000

They spent the weekend in her bed, ordering pizza and eating it in bed, drinking in bed, laughing and loving and finally sleeping. On Sunday, Greg said he had to go back to his hotel, he had to prepare for his appointment the next day. When he came out of the shower, she was sitting, dressed, on the edge of her bed. She watched him dress, wanting to ask if she would see him again before he flew back to New Jersey, but felt he should bring it up.

He lit a cigarette out on the street, limping slowly to her car. He stopped, looking at her over the top of the El Camino, then drew deeply on the cigarette and tossed it to the street. "I'll be in Boston until Wednesday," he said. "Would you like to see me again?"

She smiled and opened her door. "Does a fat kid love cake?"

He smiled. He worked himself into her car, gave her the hotel address, and then twirled his cane between his feet. "I should be through by lunch tomorrow with the first round of appointments. Would you like to go to lunch? I'll come by the morgue."

"You gonna tell everyone what a great piece of ass I am?"

"Probably not, but you never know." He winked. "I have an image to uphold, you know, cantankerous misogynist drug addict brilliant physician. No telling what I'll do. Worth the risk?"

"Absolutely." She drove him to his hotel. He didn't invite her up, which was fine, they both needed some sleep.

"I'll come by around noon. I'll just start yelling for great piece of ass and see how many women come running."

"Do that," she said. "See you then, Greg."

He leaned forward and kissed her. "Socially correct, right?"

"Right." She smiled.

He got out of the car, and she watched him navigate the sidewalk to the Hilton. When he'd entered the building, she drove away, thinking my God, who would have thought I'd have such a weekend? She went home, drank a mug of herbal tea, and undressed, climbing in bed and falling into a deep sleep that lasted until dawn.

000000000

She swore Nigel lay in wait for her. No sooner had she emerged from the locker room, in clean scrubs over a thermal undershirt, than he was beside her, walking toward trace, a smirk on his face.

"And how was your weekend, Jordan?"

She looked up at him, and an urge to turn that smirk to something else possessed her. "Lovely, Nigel," she said, "I was well and truly laid."

Mission accomplished. He stopped in his tracks, his mouth open, and she proceeded on, grinning, God she loved upending Nigel and the opportunities were so rare. She burst into trace, in a great mood, ready for work but keeping an eye on the clock, she hoped Greg remembered his promise. Young Quentin, Dr Cawley as she was properly addressed, was already there, observing Bug work over a badly decomposed corpse, her pretty face an even prettier shade of green behind her mask as she watched. Jordan grinned, wondering if she should tell Quentin she'd met the great Dr. House, then decided that was information best kept to herself. She sidled up to the table.

"Whoa, it's been in hiding a long time," she said, holding a mask to her face with her left hand.

Bug looked up. "Almost a year, based on the insect colonies. Good weekend?" He returned his attention to the corpse.

"Yeah," she said, "very good."

"Dr. Macy said he wanted to see you," Quentin said, her green eyes matching her color, she was not going to make it through this internship, Jordan thought.

"Then I guess I'll go find him," she said, and walked away, tossing her mask in the bio bag. She met Nigel again in the corridor.

"Who was he?" Nigel asked, falling into step with her.

She looked at him. "I don't kiss and tell, Nige." She reached Garret's office, gave him a wink, and walked in to see the boss. Garret was studying a file, frowning, and she wondered if she'd made a mistake on some autopsy. "Morning, Garret."

He looked up. "I guess." He tapped the file. "This case is being reopened, the cold case guys got an exhumation order. I want you to review it, look for any error the ME might have made. It's from before your time, so you're a fresh set of eyes." He closed the file and held it out. She took it and held it under her arm. "Nigel mentioned you probably had a good weekend," he said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes. "Gossip queen that he is." Her smile was affectionate, she adored Nigel. "Yeah, I did have a good weekend. You?"

"I spent mine arguing with Abby. Get on that, will you? The body will be in this morning?"

"Any history I should know?"

He leaned back in his chair, holding his coffee between his hands. "Uh, woman found of the 95 corridor, New York driver's license, seems she was a major player in a NYC case. That's about it. Fresh look," he reminded her.

She nodded and walked to her office, stopping for coffee. She got comfortable, leaning back in her chair and actually putting her feet on her desk, opening the file in her lap. She quickly became absorbed in it. Apparently, the NY district attorney's office was involved and upset, she was a big witness in a case, and her cause of death, while ruled homicide, wasn't completely clear, given the conditions of the remains. She studied all the forensics, going over them several times, but couldn't find a mistake on the ME's part, the examination was thorough and the conclusion clearly stated. She was about to return to Garret with her opinion when she heard that familiar voice in the corridor and she grinned, even as she blushed, God the man was true to his word.

"I'm looking for that sexy ME with the long black hair," he said, far louder than necessary. She came out of her office with the file and a huge smile, and when he saw her, over Lily's head, his eyes lit even as he kept frowning at an interfering Lily.

"Sir, you aren't authorized to be in this area," Lily said, as Jordan came up behind her.

"Sure he is, Lily," Jordan said, "he's a doctor." She squeezed his arm. "I'll just be a minute, Greg." She hurried into Garret's office, she'd had no idea how much time had passed while she worked over the file. "Looks fine to me, Garret. I have a lunch date, he's here, so if you have questions, I'll answer them when I get back."

Garret's eyebrows seemed to hit his hairline. "Date? Good." He stood, walking her to his door, he wanted a look and Jordan found that amusing. Greg was leaning on his cane, staring at Lily as if she was a new form of disease to be diagnosed, while she looked at him in wonder. He looked good, still in jeans, but with a white oxford shirt with buttoned collar points under a navy blazer. He still hadn't shaved, and she thought about that stubble rubbing certain sensitive parts of her anatomy, and a blush crept up her neck. His eyes spoke for him, appreciatively, and she realized he was remembering her naked, and she knew she had to get out of there. Lily was still interrogating him, or trying to, her curiosity was aroused, and Nigel chose that moment to appear. Jordan knew they had to get out now.

"I need to change, Greg," she said. "Won't take a minute." She hurried into the locker room, Lily hot on her heels. Jordan opened her locker and peeled off her scrubs as Lily sat on the bench.

"Who is he, Jordan? He's gorgeous."

"He's a doctor from New Jersey, up here for some medical tests at the General. We met Friday night, we're having lunch." She pulled her jeans up to her waist and fastened them, then reached for the dark blue sweater on the locker floor. "Nothing to it," she said, pulling the sweater over her head.

"Yeah, right." Lily had that know it all note in her voice, and Jordan eyed her as she ran a brush through her curls. "He's the one you were with Friday night?"

"Yep." Jordan grabbed her purse. "And Saturday. And Sunday. And now we're having lunch." She sat down to tie her shoes, then looked at Lily. "Quit fishing, Lily."

"But who is he?"

"I told you." She gave herself a last quick glimpse in the mirror. "I'll be back later." She almost flew out of the locker room. Greg waited, leaning against the wall, as Nigel attempted chat. She slid next to Greg and took his arm. "Ready?"

"Yes. You actually work with all these bozos?" He fixed Nigel with a penetrating stare. "Trust me, the accent doesn't work on me, I have an Aussie on my staff and I regularly beat him, it annoys the hell out of me."

Jordan walked into the elevator with him and as the doors closed, said "I should apologize for Nigel, he's incorrigibly nosy."

"He's incorrigibly gay, did you check out his shoes?"

She looked up at him, he was staring straight ahead. She caught the tick in his jaw. He was hurting. "I don't think he's gay, Greg."

He looked down at her, and attempted a smile. "I know. Just my way of insulting intrusive, gossipy idiots who want my life history as if it's their privilege. Don't apologize for him."

"OK. Your meds not working this morning?"

He shook his head. The elevator slowed, then stopped and the doors opened. They walked through the lobby. Once outside, he stopped and turned to her. "Are you hungry?" he asked, those eyes focused on her as if she was the only person in the world.

"Not really. Five minutes to my apartment."

He nodded, and they made their way to her car. They met Woody on the sidewalk, he was hurrying to the ME's building, but he came to a complete stop when he saw Jordan with the tall, handsome man and his cane. "Jordan," he said, looking back and forth.

"Woody."

"Uh, how've you been?"

"Exceptionally well of late," she said. "We have to go, lunch hour and all. Oh, this is Greg House. Greg, Woody Hoyt."

Greg looked down from his superior height and smirked. "The woodless one." He twirled his cane, then bumped it on the pavement for emphasis.

Woody turned red, but Jordan took Greg's arm and they moved past him before he responded. She knew he turned to watch them, and she wanted to put her hand on Greg's back, but he'd take that as a possessive show, and she did not possess him, no one would. She unlocked the passenger door, then walked around the hood and unlocked her door. Once in the car, Greg reached in his pocket for a bottle and popped two pills; like a magician, his hands were so quick she couldn't see if it was the prescription she wrote or his Vicodin.

"How'd it go at the General?" she asked, speeding toward her apartment via back streets.

He twirled his cane between his feet. "It went. I gave them my films, I go back tomorrow for the verdict."

She still kept her questions to herself, she didn't want to know, and he didn't want to tell. She parked in front of her building and they went in. As soon as the apartment door was locked behind them, they began shedding clothes as they made their way to her bed.

000000000

Woody was steaming when he got off the elevator. The first person he saw was Lily, and though he was here to see Nigel, he stopped her.

"Who's the jerk with Jordan?"

Lily looked at him, surprised. "His name is Greg, he's a doctor, that's all I know. What happened?"

"Never mind. Where's Nigel?"

"In trace." She watched him turn away and stalk to the room with all the computers and equipment whose workings he didn't understand. Nigel was studying a computer screen, a young woman beside him. He heard Woody and looked up.

"Woodrow. How's it hanging this morning?"

"It's afternoon now, Nigel," he said, his jaw set. "Who was that jerk with Jordan?"

Nigel's eyebrows arched. "I'm not exactly sure." An impulse overtook Nigel and he smiled. "But she spent the weekend with him. I think it has real possibilities. I know his first name is Greg."

"Yeah, Greg House, she introduced us."

The young woman gasped, and both men looked at her. "Greg House? Dr. Greg House? Oh my God. I want a fellowship with him. They've left the building?"

"Yeah, they've left," Woody said, looking at her. She was pretty, he thought, and then he shook his head. "He's a jerk, you might want to rethink that fellowship thing."

"He's a brilliant physician. Any doctor would give an arm or leg to work under him."

Nigel giggled. "I'm sure Jordan will be able to speak about that, Quentin."

"Oh funny, Nigel," Woody said.

"Jealous, Woodrow?"

Woody glared at him. "No. Do you have those DNA reports?"

"Quentin, would you get the good detective that file by the scanner?" Nigel eyed Woody evenly. "You know, Woody, when you send a girl packing, you lose the right to be jealous of whatever comfort she finds. You certainly picked up Lu quickly enough."

He took the file from Quentin. "Thank you, uh…"

"Quentin Cawley. I'm doing an internship in hopes of securing that fellowship in New Jersey."

"So he's from New Jersey?" Woody brightened at that.

"Detective, he's a world renowned diagnostician. Working under him, learning from him, is the dream of half the med school graduates in the country. Sure, he has a reputation for being a jerk, as you put it, but he's brilliant."

"And quite sexy," Nigel added helpfully, looking at Quentin.

Woody frowned. "He looked like a rumpled old man to me." He gripped the file, then looked at Quentin. "Would you like to grab a quick bite, Doctor Cawley?"

That surprised Nigel, then he realized Woody would pump her for information, but he let Quentin make her own decision. She nodded, clearly taken with Woody's good looks, and Nigel shook his head. He watched them walk out of his domain, sighed, and hoped Jordan was having a wonderful lunch.

Woody indeed pumped Quentin for information over a sandwich at a diner nearby. All she could tell him was House's reputation and her hopes for the fellowship when a space opened. Woody was fuming, but he hid it, he realized Jordan was a free agent, he'd cut her loose, and he couldn't pass judgment, though he did anyway. Jordan was screwing a man she'd just met, and it upset him, though he did his best to suppress it. He hated the images that kept flashing through his mind, so he tried to focus on the young doctor across the table, but he kept seeing Jordan joined at the crotch with that son of a bitch. He ended up with indigestion.

0000000000-

Jordan was languid, lying in Greg's arms, feeling boneless and totally at peace. She knew this was an interlude, he'd be leaving in two days, with no guarantees she'd see him again. He kissed the top of her head, then turned on his side, moving his fingers on the small of her back as if he was playing a keyboard.

"You have to go back to work," he said, softly, brushing hair away from her face.

She turned and looked at her bedside clock. "Oh shit, I'm late." She rolled out of bed. "Do you want to go back to your hotel, or hang here until I get back from work?"

He watched her throw clothes on, smiling. "If you don't mind, I'll wait here. The scotch is cheaper."

She laughed, sitting down to tie her tennis shoes. "Help yourself. Sorry, but I don't have pay per view, but feel free to play with computer."

He nodded. "I'll be here." He was lying on his back, the sheet up to his navel, his bad leg fully extended, cane leaning against the nightstand.

She paused to scribble a number on the back of an envelope. "My cell. Call if you need me. I'll try to get out of there early."

"OK. Go, Doctor, the dead await evisceration. I'll see you when you get here."

She grabbed a jacket and her purse, then leaned over and kissed him. "You," she said, "are fantastic." And she was gone, running like a madwoman for her car.

Garret was yelling for her when she walked off the elevator. He saw her, pointed at his watch, and then at his office. She followed him. He closed the door.

"Where have you been?"

"Long lunch."

He looked at her. "Yeah, right. How much do you know about that guy?"

"All I need to know."

"I did some checking, he's the talk of the office, quite distracting. Brilliant physician, I'll give you that, but he's also known as a jerk, a misogynist, totally self-centered. How can he be good for you?"

She flushed. "Who says I'm looking for a lifetime commitment, Garret? He may be all the things you said, but not to me. He's exactly what I need right now, and I'll thank you to stay out of my bed."

"Fair enough, but if this comes back to bite you in the ass, don't come crying to me."

"Never would. Are we done?"

"You have a body waiting in autopsy. Vehicular homicide is the expected charge."

"That all you've calendared for me?"

"Trying to get out early?" He shrugged. "Yeah. I just hope you know what you're doing. His boss says he's terrible with relationships, in fact, she was shocked he's in Boston."

"Garret, it's just a fling. A fun fling. I'm going to work now." She left his office and went to change. She found Quentin in the locker room, hurling, and she felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman. "You OK?" she called.

Quentin got up, wiping her mouth with toilet paper. "I will be." She approached Jordan as she undressed. "You're really with Dr. House?"

Jordan smiled, sliding her scrub shirt over her head. "I wouldn't say with. We're just spending some time together." She pulled her pants up and tied the string.

"Think you could put in a good word for me?"

She shook her head. "That's the last thing you want me to do, Quentin. Trust me. Now, I have a body to cut up." She tightened the laces on her Nikes and left the room.

0000000000

Woody was leaning on her car when she finally got out of the office. She frowned at him. "You spying on me, Woody?" She walked to the driver's side and unlocked the door.

"No, but I want to talk to you. That guy is all wrong for you, Jo."

"And that matters to you because?"

He frowned. "We're still friends, aren't we?"

"Don't worry about me, Woody, I can take care of myself." She got in the car and drove away. It was dark when she pulled up in front of her building. She looked up as she got out of the car, her apartment windows were lit. He was still there. She smiled. She hurried up the steps and let herself in.

He was playing her guitar. She closed the door and stood there, amazed at the sounds he coaxed from that guitar. He finished the song, then looked at her. "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," he said, and put the guitar aside. "How was your afternoon?"

"Oh, got reamed by my boss for being late and for having an impulsive affair with you, was solicited by intern to put in a good word with you for that fellowship, and found Woody waiting by my car."

"Everyone wants to protect you from me, except your intern, who wants to use you to get to me." He reached for a glass on the end table and sipped. "Join me," he said.

She got a beer and sat on the couch with him. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

He leaned back and put his arm along the back of the couch. She didn't know if it was an invitation or not, so she didn't move. "I was a lonely kid, it filled the hours, gave me another way of speaking. I'm much better on the piano."

"Sorry I don't have one."

He took her hand and examined her fingers. They were long and tapered. "You spent a lot of time with music, too," he said. "Loneliness or pain?"

"Both." She interlaced her fingers with his, also the long, supple fingers of the musician. "Are you hungry?"

"A little." He held up the glass. "I've been known to drink my dinner." He wore his underwear and his shirt, and she felt overdressed. He smiled at her, and she felt that electric pull, hormones and lust, he'd be leaving soon, she had no assurances she'd see him again, and maybe that was best. She stood, pulling him to his feet. "I remember an old song my father used to play, Get it While You Can."

He smiled again, that slow, sexy smile. "Janis Joplin. An excellent point of view, especially given the circumstances."

As they got into bed, Jordan hesitated. "I know I shouldn't ask, but will I see you again?"

"Do you want to? I'm lousy at relationships, Jordan. And I have a feeling you want someone stable, someone normal."

"Not necessarily."

He took her in his arms and looked down at her, focusing on her eyes. "I'm no good at commitments. I see black and white, no shades of gray. Absolutes. And I am known to lie, cheat, and steal to get what I want, which, in my life, is the good of my patient, as I have maybe two friends, who know my faults all too well. I don't think I'm meant to be in a real relationship."

"The pain in the ass."

He nodded. She understood. She felt that way about Woody, she knew he was the one, but like Greg, she'd been dumped, and there were only substitutes, almost rans. She reached up and stroked his face, he'd shaved while she was working. "Then let's take Joplin's advice."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, playing her back like a keyboard again, she wondered what music was in his head. "If I could love anyone again, I think it would be you. We're the opposite sides of the same coin. But if this is what we get, it's damn good."

"It is." She pulled his head down and kissed him, exploring his mouth with her tongue, tasting the scotch and the nicotine; she realized he must have gone outside to smoke, a thoughtful gesture on his part. "It's the now that matters," she whispered.

He played her like an instrument, like the gifted musician he was, and her body, like a finely crafted instrument, responded in kind. She was wonderfully exhausted by the time she fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. One more day, she thought, before sleep took her, one more day.

000000000

Her colleagues regarded her with warm amusement, and she ignored them, focused as she was on this last day. Quentin kept pestering her, and she kept telling her it would do no good, she'd either earn it on her own or not all, Greg was not influenced by her, so please, knock it off. She worked, hard, met Greg for lunch, and when she got home that night, found him again playing her guitar. She came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He finished the song and put the guitar aside. She came and sat beside him.

"Well." She cleared her throat. "This is it."

He smiled, oh God that smile just killed her, and his eyes told her he was sorry, he had the most expressive eyes she'd ever seen. "A lot of hours between now and my seven a.m. flight."

She fought the urge to tell him she'd go with him, that she could deal with all the complicated issues of his life, but that would ruin it, and she knew it too well. They were too much alike, understood each other too well, to play the drama. It began as casual sex, it would end with a meaningful friendship, and she would live with that, and with the hope that she would see him again.

00000000

She dropped him at Logan Airport, as he asked, and watched him hobble inside the terminal, tears in her eyes. Nut, she thought, you knew it wouldn't last, you're just in lust. He's a complicated man, you're a way too complicated woman for it to last. Still, she felt the ache of loss, and she drove right to work, she'd get started on her paperwork, bury herself in duty, and maybe find something to avoid going home to that empty apartment.

She got the call to report to a crime scene twenty minutes after she got there, a body found in the woods. It was a relief, something to occupy her mind, keep that ache at bay. When she pulled up, the police were everywhere. She slipped under the crime scene tape, and looked for the detective. Her heart sank. It was Woody.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" she asked, looking around.

"I'm fine. How are you?"

She looked at him and impulsively decided to see if he could take honesty like Greg. "A little lonely."

His head moved back, he was surprised, and his eyes focused on her. "He left?"

"He did."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Her tone was kind. "I knew what I was getting into. What do we have?"

He led her to the body, a boy, maybe fifteen, the back of his head smashed in, his face covered in occult symbols. She recoiled for a moment, feeling sick, then she got gloves and knelt beside him. A few minutes later, she rose and told Woody she estimated the time of death around midnight. She studied the scene, the remains of a fire, but otherwise swept clean of anything useful. She hoped to learn more back at the morgue.

"Wonder what he was doing?" she asked, feeling distinctly uneasy.

Woody put his hand on her shoulder. "I know. It's creepy. CSU will scour the area, maybe they dropped something. We'll collect all those partially burned logs, one of them might be the weapon. You don't look well, Jordan, why don't you go back to the morgue? You've done all you can."

She watched the boy zipped into a body bag and loaded on a gurney. Woody was right, she didn't feel well, this was upsetting, this was the evil side of human nature in full bloom. She nodded. "I'll see you later?"

"Absolutely." He touched her cheek. "Really, go on, you look like you're going to pass out."

She shook it off, that feeling that evil surrounded her, and got into the ME SUV. She drove away with an undeniable sense of relief. She stopped at convenience store for a Diet Coke, then continued on. Parking in the ME's lot, she was suddenly hit with a wave of severe nausea, she barely made it out of the car before she spewed Diet Coke all over the pavement. She dreaded having to deal with that evil, but he was a boy, who knew what he was doing there, he wasn't necessarily a willing part of whatever was going on before someone turned on him and beat his brains out.

Woody came in after she'd opened him up. He kept a distance, he still couldn't get used to looking at human insides. She raised her visor, then approached him. "Healthy young man, Nigel was able to ID him as Jeff Butterworth, of Nashua, NH, all of sixteen." She looked back at him. "Hell of a short life."

"We'll make the notification," he said, gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Can we talk?"

"Sure." She pulled the visor off and put it aside. "What's up?"

He looked around, this wasn't exactly the place he'd envisioned, but it would have to do. "I, uh, I've been thinking. I can't get you out of my head. I guess I'm asking if maybe we could try again, go slow, but give ourselves a chance to find what we once had."

She stared at him. He was serious. She wondered how much Greg had to do with this decision. "And Lu?"

He looked away for a second. "Lu was never going to be the one. It wasn't fair to her."

"Are you saying you broke it off?"

"I am. Last night."

"I'm sure she's thrilled." Jordan yanked off her paper gown. "What do you want from me, Woody? Is this because of Greg?"

"No. I've been thinking about it for awhile. House was a catalyst, yes, for a day or two I thought I'd lost you to him, but he's gone, and we're here, and I think we owe ourselves a chance."

She balled the gown and tossed it in the receptacle. "I need to think about it, Woody. You really hurt me."

"I know. And I'm sorry. Take all the time you need."

She nodded. "OK. Now, let's catch this boy's killer."

000000000

The apartment felt as empty as she'd expected. She dropped her bag of groceries on the counter and then, opening a beer, put them away. How, she thought, could she miss someone she'd known for a weekend? And Woody. She went to her CD player and hit play, it was the last CD Greg listened to as he waited for her to come home from work, the Who, and she smiled, visualizing him playing air guitar to some of the riffs. She sat on the couch, her thoughts returning to Woody.

So he wanted to come back. A lot of baggage came with that, she thought, he'd hurt her worse than anyone before, and she'd been hurt often enough. She loved him, she knew that, she wouldn't lie to herself, remembering Greg's maxim, everybody lies. She loved him, but was it enough to heal the wounds? And if Greg came back, as he planned, what then? She knew she'd fall into bed with Greg the second he looked at her, and Woody would not be pleased. She smiled. Oh no, Farm Boy would not be pleased with her cavorting under the sheets with the big, sexy man from New Jersey. Woody was who she'd wanted to build a life with, but so much had changed, she didn't know if they could recover. Still, she thought she owed herself a chance to find out, to give him the opportunity to prove he wasn't playing some kind of game born of jealousy.

Her phone rang, and for a moment, she hoped it was Greg. It was Woody. He wanted to come over, so she told him fine, she'd be here. She got another beer, pacing, listening to the Who sing of Mama and her squeezebox. Woody knocked within minutes, he must have been sitting in his car around the corner when he called. She let him in. The first thing he noticed was the music.

"Not your usual," he commented.

She turned it off. "Greg bought it. He loves the Who."

Woody shrugged. "Well, Greg is gone. Back to his life as the great medical deity and major ass."

"He's not an ass, Woody, at least not with me."

"OK, sorry." He held his hands up, palms out. They sat on the couch, at opposite ends. She let him squirm, this was his show, he'd have to initiate the conversation. Nervous, he got up and helped himself to a beer, then sat down again. "I meant what I said, Jordan. I want a chance to start over. We can get past Lu and Greg."

Her eyes narrowed, but she held her tongue. "I have to work with Lu, I'm not sure I want to put up with her bitchiness."

"She's transferring."

"Hoyt breaks another heart," she said.

"I guess I deserve that," he said. "The truth is I never stopped loving you."

"You have an odd way of showing it."

"Jordan, I was so messed up. Please, let's try to get past it, to make a fresh start. We have a good history to fall back on."

She nodded. "That's true." She looked at him, so earnest, and her heart softened. "OK, I'm willing to try, but we're going slow, OK? I can't take another hit."

"I know." He looked around, twisting the beer in his hand. "Is Greg coming back?"

"He's supposed to, in a couple of weeks. I don't know what's wrong with him, I didn't ask." When Woody cocked his eyebrows, she said "Greg isn't the kind of man you ask a lot of questions of. He tells me what he thinks I need to know."

"And if he came back?"

"Unfair question. It was just a fling, a weekend. We both knew it."

"OK." He finished his beer. "I'll get going. I'll see you tomorrow."

She walked him to the door, and allowed a chaste kiss on her cheek. When he was gone, she stretched out on the couch, after restarting the CD, and spent the evening contemplating her future, her choices, she would try to mend things with Woody, maybe they could build that life Greg said she needed and wanted.

0000000000

The two weeks passed, and she didn't hear from Greg. She tried not to let it bother her. She worked, she went out with Woody, taking it slowly, but she wasn't feeling well, it was flu season and she finally hauled herself to her doctor, this thing was dragging on forever.

She liked Dr. Windsor. She was warm and funny and very good. She came into the examining room after giving Jordan time to change into a gown. "Flu, huh?" she said. "You didn't get a flu shot?"

"Wasn't time."

She put her stethoscope in her ears and listened to Jordan's chest. Frowning, she draped it around her neck. "Your lungs sound fine. Let's draw some blood, and while we're at it, you're almost due for your annual, feel up to a turn in the stirrups?"

"Not today, thank you."

She picked up a phone and called for a tech. "So what symptoms do you have? You can't be coughing, your lungs sound clear."

She shrugged. "Fatigue, mostly. Some vomiting. Just the raging cruds."

"Hmm." She consulted the chart while the med tech came in and drew two vials of blood from Jordan's arm. "Run those STAT," she instructed, and the tech nodded. 'How's your appetite?"

"Good, I guess. I'm really just fatigued, I can't seem to get enough sleep, and I feel like crap."

Dr. Windsor tapped her pen on Jordan's chart. "Let's see what the blood work shows, shouldn't take long. I'll be right back."

Jordan kicked her legs back and forth from the knees as she sat, waiting, Ten minutes later, Dr. Windsor came back, and she was frowning. Jordan looked at her, suddenly nervous.

"You're on the pill?" Jordan nodded. "You take them every day?"

"Yes."

"Well, stop. You're pregnant."

"You are shitting me."

"No, I'm not. It happens, Jordan, you know that."

Tears filled her eyes, and Dr. Windsor grabbed a box of tissues. "Oh God," Jordan said.

"You have choices, Jordan."

"I know." She wiped her eyes. "How did this happen?"

Dr. Windsor shrugged. "Nothing is foolproof. Who's the father?"

"A doctor from New Jersey. Oh Christ, how do I tell him this? It was just a fling." She looked up at her doctor. "He probably doesn't remember my name by now."

Dr. Windsor draped an arm around her shoulders. "I know a few doctors in New Jersey, I spent a year at Princeton Plainsboro, teaching. What's his name?"

She took a deep breath, this could go very bad very fast. "Greg House."

Emily Windsor's face went from warm support to shock. "House? Now you're kidding me."

"No, I'm not."

"Girl, I do not envy you. What on earth possessed you to sleep with him? I mean, yes, he's sexy, but he's such a -"

"Stop. He was none of those things with me. I'm tired of people telling me what a jerk he is."

"Oh dear. I hope you don't have feelings for him, because he can't love anyone but himself."

"That's not true. I know he doesn't love me, but he's capable of loving, of caring, of gentleness."

"Are we talking about the same Greg House?"

Jordan got off the table and stripped the gown from her shoulders, tossing it on the table. She dressed quickly, then looked at her doctor. "We are. I have to go. I'll be in touch about whatever I decide." She grabbed her purse and fled, driving blindly back to the morgue, trying to think. How could this happen? What would Woody say? Things were going so well, they were rebuilding, and now she'd have to tell him she was pregnant with another man's child. She fully expected he'd be out the door before she finished the sentence. And what would Greg say? It was unthinkable not to tell him, it was his child, too, though she had no idea how he felt about children.

She walked straight to her office and closed the door, holding her emotions as tightly as a drowning woman holds a life preserver. She sank into her desk chair and lowered her head to the desk, burying her face in her arms. She had to talk to Greg before she spoke to anyone else. When she felt in control, she pulled out a directory of physicians and specialties. She found him easily enough, and dialed the number she hoped went straight to his office.

"House." The sound of his voice reached into her core.

"Greg, it's Jordan. How are you?"

"Hi," he said, his tone softening. "I didn't make it back to Boston, I'm sorry."

"That's OK. I'm sorry about what I have to tell you."

There was silence on his end for a long moment, and then he said, "Jordan, I can be in Boston tonight."

"You know what I'm going to tell you?"

"I'm a board certified diagnostician. There's nothing else you would be sorry about telling me. I'm leaving now. I'll be there in a few hours. I'll swipe Wilson's GPS. What's your address?" She told him. "OK, just hang on. Did you find out today?"

"Yes."

"Then hang on with both hands. I'll be there. Order pizza. I will be there, OK? Do you have my cell number?" When she told him no, he gave it to her. "See you in a few hours." He hung up.

She leaned back, stunned. This was unexpected. Then someone knocked on her door and opened it. She looked up at Garret, holding a file. He looked at her and closed the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I can't tell you right now," she said.

He moved to her and took her chin in his fingers, tilting her head up. Then he looked at the open directory, the scribbled cell phone number, and his expression changed to one of compassion. "Well shit," he said. "Did he dump you, deny responsibility?"

"No, he's on his way up. I am really tired of people thinking he's a world class ass."

"OK, I'm sorry." He pulled a chair next to her. "You can leave early, but remember that case I had you review? The one that had the NY DA's knickers in a twist?" She nodded. "Well, they're coming up here tomorrow, and I'd like you be in on the meeting if you feel you can." She nodded, she could do that, all she had to do was say the individual died of a gunshot wound, and based on the CSU evidence, dumped, killed somewhere else and dumped in Boston. She didn't understand why New York was getting twisted about a six year old case. Garret stroked her hair, settling her, as he used to do with Abby. "Go home, get some rest. Call me if you need me, I'm not afraid of the great doctor, he takes a knee in the balls like every other man. Although," he said, noting her expression, "I am impressed he's coming to you. Did you just find out?" She nodded. "Anything I can do?"

"Just misdirect Woody if he comes looking for me." Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "We were getting close again, this is going to kill him."

"Any chance it's Woody's?"

"None, absolutely not a chance. It's Greg's."

"So go home. The meeting with the New York people is at nine. If you can't make it in, I'll cover for you."

"I'll be here."

"Sshh. You don't know how you'll be in the morning. We'll play it by ear. Now. Go home. Rest. Eat something. And call me, promise you'll call me if you need me."

"I will." She stood and got her coat. "Thank you, Garret."

He patted her back. "Take care of yourself. And if House gives you any crap, call me."

She frowned, jerking her coat over shoulders. "You didn't hear him on the phone. He was amazing. Please, stop saying he's an ass and a jerk, because, with me, he's none of those things."

"OK. I'm sorry. I'll handle Woody if he calls or shows up."

She left her office and walked to the elevators, staring straight ahead. She stepped into the car when it opened and turned, pushing the button and letting the doors close on her curious colleagues. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. Her hand dropped to her abdomen, imagining the life developing within her womb. She found her car through a haze of tears, and managed to drive home without causing an accident. She showered and dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee shirt, with thick white socks protecting her feet from the floor. Then she curled up on the couch and waited, a Diet Coke at hand, alternately crying and laughing at the cruelty of life.

He knocked three hours later. She got up and opened the door and looked at him. He stepped in and took her in his arms, cradling her, and her arms went around his waist as she heard his cane clatter to the floor. Then she pulled away, bent to get his cane, and closed the door. They sat on the couch. "You want a drink?" she asked.

"Not right now," he said. "Come here," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

She slipped next to him, let him hold her. "I was on the pill."

He stroked her cheek. "It still happens. What do you want to do?"

She looked at him, into those amazing eyes. "I was raised a Catholic. I may not practice, but certain things are so internalized I can't even consider them."

He nodded. "OK, I won't argue with that, not with you." He kissed the side of her head. "The reality is we aren't in love, there's no happy ending to this, but I have to ask, do you really want to bring an addict's child into this world?" When she looked at him with wide, puzzled eyes, he sighed. "I am not a good person, Jordan, at least according to most people. I am an addict. This whole thing in Boston - I faked brain cancer to get the palliative implant. My ducklings went behind my back and ran nine zillion test to prove I didn't really have a tumor, they all know I did it just to stay high. Is that the father you want for our baby?"

She looked at him. "You may be an addict, you're also living with incredible pain every minute of your life. Somehow what you did doesn't bother me, so maybe that puts me in the same class with you. I don't know how you feel about children, about fatherhood, what responsibility, if any, you want to assume. I don't know what you want."

He held her head against his shoulder. "I actually like children, they haven't learned to lie and they see things much the same way I do. As for being a father, it scares the hell out of me, which is why I refused Cuddy when she asked me to be a sperm donor. As for responsibility, well, I had as much to do with it as you did. I'll do what you want in that area. Child support, visitation, whatever. I won't cut and run, which would shock the crap out of most people." He tilted her head up. "How are you going to deal with this? Being a single parent most of the time? We have lives, neither one of us should uproot them for a child."

"I've sort of gotten back with Woody." She met his eyes. "We haven't slept together, but if you want, we'll do a paternity test."

He shook his head. "I believe you. This sort of complicates that, doesn't it?"

"Oh yeah. Farm Boy is not going to be happy."

"Neither are you."

"No, but at least I know I'm responsible, that it's mine and I have to do what's right for it."

He massaged his leg, then shifted, digging into the pocket of his jeans. He opened the bottle with one hand and dumped several into his mouth, then put the bottle on the end table. "It's mine, too, so what can I do? Do you want me to be Daddy?"

"I want you to do what you want to do. I don't want to feel I've forced you into anything."

"Do you know how many people would tell you I can't be forced into anything?" He kissed her, lightly, and her desire for a deeper kiss surprised her. "I was thinking, on the way up here, that, if you'll let me, I'd like to be part of his life. With what did you call him, Farm boy?"

"It's Woody."

"Ah, Woody. What if Woody doesn't freak, is he going to want me barging into our child's life, confusing everything?"

"It's your child, he'd have to accept that." She rubbed her hand across his chest. "I am so sorry to complicate your life like this."

He kissed her again, deeper, and she pressed against him. "It's your life that's seriously complicated now, Jordan. I'll do what I can, what you want, but we're not talking white picket fences and a Golden Retriever. We've made a baby and we have to deal with it. I ask again, do you really want a drug addict as your baby's father?"

"I want you. The man I know hides under that snarling exterior, the man who made me feel like I'd touched the face of God and lived to tell about it."

He smiled. "Then we're having a baby. So how will that redefine your relationship with Woody?"

"I don't know. I'm so confused. Being this close to you confuses me."

"You're confusing love and lust. You don't love me, and you know it. You've got a serious case of lust, yes, but Dr. House can fix that." He flashed that merry gremlin's grin, and she laughed. He kissed her, holding the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her long hair. His other hand touched her breast, and her groin was on fire. She pushed her hand under his tee shirt, running her hand up to his nipples. "One last time," he said, "so junior will know his parents care about each other."

000000000

He left the next morning, assuring her he would be there for her, for the baby, that it was important to him to be present at the birth. He told her if Woody dumped her, while he wasn't the marrying kind, he would not leave her alone to carry all the weight. He traced the outline of her cheekbone, then kissed her, and walked out, leaving her with tears and a terrible ache in her heart. How, she thought, could everything get so messed up?

She showered and dressed for the appointment with the New York people. She wore black pants, black long-sleeved tee, and a charcoal blazer, wanting to look professional and in control. She drove to work, concentrating, she had to focus on this one task and then life was going to spiral out of her control. She would have to tell Woody, but that could wait.

She met Garret in his office at eight-thirty. He raised his eyebrows when he saw her. "Look good," he said. "How'd it go with House last night?"

"Good." She closed the office door. "He was totally supportive. He said he'll be there for me, for the kid, he said he really wanted to be present at the birth."

"House?"

"Garret, I keep telling you he's not the man people say he is with me."

"You must be some kind of witch," he said, shaking his head, "if you can do that to that man." He saw the stricken look on her face and apologized. "I'm really sorry. I keep forgetting he's something special for you."

"Yeah, well, in a few months it's going to be obvious how special he is to me." She shook her head. "So where are these New York lawyers?"

"They'll be along. Can I get you some coffee?"

"Sure. And don't you dare sneak decaf on me."

He smiled and left for the break room. She stood, leaning against the doorframe, when she saw young Dr. Cawley escort a man and a woman into the conference room. She zeroed in on the man, he was much older than she, but something about him struck her as sexy, and she slapped the side of her head. That's what got you in this place to begin with, idiot, she thought, but he was a handsome man, probably in his fifties from the glimpse she got. Garret came back and she took her coffee. "I think the New Yorkers are here," she said.

"Yeah, I saw them. Let's deal with this, then you can go home, get some rest." He hesitated, turning a mild red. "I know you're going to see Woody today, so I'm going to ask, did you sleep with House last night?"

"Why?"

He shook his head. "Just doing a Jordan check." He grinned then sobered. "It's just that I know you, girl, and have for a long time. You lack impulse control."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I did. He is without a doubt the best lover I've ever had, think I'll pass that up one last time? And Woody will ask, too."

"Going to tell him the truth?"

She shrugged one shoulder this time. "Greg says everybody lies."

"Let's go deal with this goat rope, and then seriously, I want you to get some rest."

"I'm not arguing with you."

They walked to the conference room, Garret carrying the file. The attorneys were standing, the man staring out the window, the woman leaning against the wall. She looked at Jordan and did a double take. Jordan nodded at her, wondering what her problem was. The man turned around when Garret said good morning. He looked at Jordan and went white as a sheet, grabbing the back of chair for support. His associate moved to him and whispered. He nodded and she observed a mask fall into place.

"I'm Garret Macy, Chief Medical Examiner, this is one of my associates, Jordan Cavanaugh." When Jordan reached to shake the man's hands, he seemed afraid to touch her, but then took her hand and shook it, holding her eyes with his. "Sit down, please, we'll get this over with."

Jordan felt the man's eyes on her the entire length of the meeting. There was sadness in his deep brown eyes, and she wondered what was going on. When the meeting broke up, she stood and started out. "Dr. Cavanaugh." She turned and faced the New York ADA. "You," he paused, his voice thick, "I'm sorry for staring at you. You remind me very much of someone I loved dearly and lost a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy," she said. "I'm sorry to have made you uncomfortable."

He smiled, she thought he had a marvelous smile, and she kicked herself again, must be hormones, she thought. "I'm not uncomfortable. It may sound odd, but it's very nice to see you. You could be her twin. It sort of makes me feel like she's still out there somewhere, if that makes sense. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," she said, and left the room, wondering what that was all about. She was tired, she and Greg had been up until very late, and so she followed Garret's directive, and went home. She undressed, putting on the same sweats and tee shirt she'd worn last night, then stretched out on her bed. She could still smell Greg on the pillow, and tears came. You have an amazing daddy, she whispered to her baby, misunderstood and in pain, but nonetheless an amazing man.

She slept all morning, her phone woke her. It was Woody. "I heard you weren't feeling well," he said.

"No, I'm not." She took a deep breath. "Can you come over?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll take my lunch now."

"Thanks, I'll see you shortly." She hung up, then got up, brushing her hair and teeth, and got a Diet Coke. She dreaded this. She was going to destroy this man, especially if she told him she slept with Greg again, she decided she had to lie about that. Woody showed up ten minutes later, a bright smile on his face. She sank lower. "Come in."

He walked in, and she walked with him to the couch. "You look like hell, Jordan," he said, "what's wrong?"

She took a deep breath. "There's no easy way to say this." Tears filled her eyes. "I'm pregnant, and it's Greg's. I'm so sorry."

He looked like he'd taken a punch to the gut. "Pregnant?" He stared at her. "With that guy's kid? Oh man." He got up and walked around. "Have you told him?"

"Yes. He says he'll be there for the baby, for me, but we don't love each other, and we know it, we're just having a child together." Tears flowed down her face. "He says he'll be part of the baby's life, whatever I want."

"And what do you want, Jordan?"

She shook her head, choking on pain and tears. "We, you and I, were building something, and now that's gone. I don't know what I want."

He sat beside her and took her hand. "OK, look. It's a baby, it isn't responsible for its parents. I love you, I'll love your baby. I can raise another man's child, because it's your child, too. This isn't going to destroy what we have, Jordan."

She looked at him, and felt love, not the passion she so wanted to feel, but love, and knew it could grow again into what she once felt for him. "Are you sure? Greg wants to be part of his life, wants to be there at his birth." She smiled weakly. "He insists it will be a boy."

Woody rolled his eyes. "He can insist all he wants, we'll find out soon enough. And it is his kid, if he wants to be part of its life, be there when it's born, I can't refuse him that."

She reached up and touched his face. "You're very special, you know that?"

He shrugged. "Maybe not as special as he is, but I'll try. I'll love that baby as much as I love its mother." He pulled her into a gentle hug. "I don't know if you're ready, but I'd like to get married, soon."

"Can I think about that for a couple of days?" She looked at him. "I'm not feeling well, I want to make that decision when I feel good. And it would have to be quiet. Too many people can count."

"So I'm not the father. Marrying you is what I want to do, not because I have to."

She nodded. "OK. You're sure? You're not going to regret it when the baby's born and Greg's there?"

"Probably, but he is the kid's father. I lost my father, I know how important they are. And I know it ties House to us for the next twenty years, but I can handle that. Can you?"

She nodded.

"The one thing I couldn't handle, Jordan, would be you cheating on me with him after we got married."

"I know. You'll just have to trust me on that one."

"I do, or I wouldn't ask you to marry me." He searched her face. "You really look worn out. Why don't you get in bed and rest? I have to go back to work, but I'll be back, I'll bring dinner." He escorted her to her bed, she hoped like hell he didn't catch a whiff of Greg's cologne. "Try to sleep. It's going to be fine, I promise."

She looked at him from the bed and smiled, feeling the love again, hoping he felt it coming from her. She had to believe the passion would return one day, when they were used to each other again. She watched him leave, and her thoughts turned to Greg again. Woody was right, he would be part of their lives forever, and it would be dangerous for her to be alone with him - could she, would she, trade passion for love? She had to. She'd loved Woody for a long time, she could count on him, and Greg was right, he was an addict, devoted to his work, she and the baby would always be second or third, and that she didn't want. She was doing the right thing, for the baby and for herself, and for Greg. It would work out.

00000000

He was born in July. Greg was there, as was Woody, and Jordan cried watching Greg hold him, the tiny little boy. He looked at Woody, still holding his son, and said, "My best friend is named Wilson. I understand that's also your middle name. I'd like it if his name was Wilson." He kissed the squalling infant, and then passed him to Woody. Then, limping painfully, he walked over to Jordan and kissed her forehead. Then he whispered, "I do love you, Jordan, but it never would have worked. You did the right thing." Straightening up, he said, "Well, people to save, diseases to defeat, a world to save. Stay in touch, Jordan, let me know how he's doing." And he hobbled out.

Bewildered, Woody carried the little boy over and looked at Jordan. "What the hell?"

"He's recognizing you as the primary figure, Woody." She was crying, and she reached for her baby. "He's an amazing man, I keep saying that." She held her son. "Hello, Will." And then she looked at the door and back to the baby, saying a silent Celtic blessing that he turn out exactly like his father.

END


End file.
